


The Ghost In You

by jawnslulluby21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnslulluby21/pseuds/jawnslulluby21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A suicidal John Watson buys a house where a spirit lingers. Who will free whom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Things Considered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockDreadsNaught](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockDreadsNaught/gifts).



> If you are reading this, my thanks in advance. I have 2 other works in progress but this has been in my head for a while.

The house was not your run of the mill average 1 bedroom bungalow. For one thing, it sat far enough off the beaten path to be listed as "hidden charm." For another, the words "fix-it-upper" were mentioned more than a few times on the realty website. It was, in short, a pile of more than just wooden boards and slap dash paint. There was an inherent charm that oozed from the new gutters hanging by shiny brackets from the roof down to the stone sidewalk that threatened to be overrun with crabgrass.

John Watson squinted through his RayBans. He knew the nervous lady was right at his elbow; she was wearing too much Red Door by Elizabeth Arden but overall, she was agreeable and knew what she was doing. He heard not one bit of her chatter as he walked past her and up to the blue painted door. He tried the handle, found it was open and pushed, letting the light in to spill across the empty front room.

"This is of course the very first room. You will probably like to keep this as your living area because so much of the other rooms are so.... well they have other uses."

"Yes. I wouldn't think I would entertain people in the bedroom or the loo." John's attempt at wry humour fell incredibly short as she just looked at him. He cleared his throat. "Well. Lead on. I like the looks so far."

"It's been on the market for a long time. The original owner rented it out. Not sure what happened or why that didn't work out but then he re listed it with us and so...here we are." She gave John a fake smile and then turned on heel and went into the kitchen. John trailed behind her, his eyes darting from freshly painted beige walls to the low ceiling. It was charming and small, just what he needed for his time ahead. And secluded. He liked that the best.

"Know something? I'll take it." John assessed her look of surprise as she stopped midway through her pitch.

"But you haven't seen the rest of it and--"

"I am aware of that but...seeing as how I asked you for peace and quiet I think this fits the bill." John rocked back on his heels and then took out his checkbook. "Sold. Now wasn't that easy?"

"Yes. I suppose it was."

 

===========================================================================

"Be careful with that. It's got my keyboards in it." John was walking beside the moving men as they dollied in a huge crate. Although the words FRAGILE were stamped all over it, the men were none too careful with it, jostling and bumping the crate as they moved it forward. "DId you not hear me? It has KEYBOARDS in it." John sighed and ran a hand through his unruly close cropped light brown hair. Morons. Atlas hired morons for movers.

"Sorry Sir." But his tone took the apology nowhere so John gave up and decided that if there were any damages, he would document them and Atlas would be responsible for the repairs.

"Yes well just put it down in the first room and I think you are quite done."

"Yes sir." The 2 men lingered as though they were waiting for something. John pointedly ignored them. If they thought they were receiving gratuities on the way they unloaded his lifestyle they were wrong.

"Goodbye."

As the 2 movers left, slamming the door behind them, John breathed a deep sigh of relief. Alone at last. Alone with his records, his awards, his drum kit and his keyboards. Enough to sustain him for a while until his solo album was done. And then, it would be time for a tidy wrap up.

He put away personal belongings, clothes, and worked on the bathroom assembling his array of hair product, bath and body soap and spray and towels. The linen closet was too small to be useful so he doubled that as a medical cabinet, stacking his shave kit, his razors, some more personal items and a tidy assortment of stacked towels that fit nicely on the floor. It was getting late; to his surprise, his watch read almost midnight, so John grabbed a pair of loungers and took a fast shower. As he sat on the edge of his bed in his brand new (well to him anyways although the house had a foundation that was rumoured to have been built in the 1700's) house, John reached into his small valise and extracted a pill bottle. Shaking 2 Ambien into his hand, he gulped some water then swallowed the pills, hoping that between the medication and the dull ache of a good day's labour, he would forego his nightmares and sleep well.

 

3 hours until dawn. Shadows played on the walls all around the sleeping small man. Sherlock peered down at the peaceful face, wondering how long would it be until this one left too just like they all had done. Something about this one though seemed familiar. With a glide instead of a walk, Sherlock left the bedroom and made his way to the front room only to settle down by the hand made oak record shelves. A steady white hand picked an album out, looked at it, replaced it precisely where it had been then removed another and held it in the moonlight.

John Watson. Dreams of an Officer.

Best seller. Ten songs. One cover. Nine originals. Played the instruments himself save for the strings in "Too Far Down To Be Counted." That one had risen to the top of the BBC charts without rhyme or reason as it was a complicated little fable set to a lush arrangement over biting words and phrases. Nothing too pleasant about it and yet...people bought the cd and made it number one. With a bullet, Sherlock thought wryly. Sighing he placed he record back in the sleeve and exactly where he had found it.

There were other things to look at, to smell, to finger and touch. He had the whole night ahead of him and he intended to use it wisely.

John woke up with a start. Bright sunlight streamed through his windows and he cursed silently at not buying drapes with dark outs. In fact, he had not bought drapes at all. Better get on that, he mentally chided himself. He stretched and yawned and shuffled out of his bed. Not too bad a night. No bad dreams to speak of. The medication seemed to be working, no thanks to his quack of a doctor who insisted that he only take one pill per night. Two usually did the trick. No use tempting fate and wake up to screams and tears.

Mornings like these always reminded John of him. Him? Just say his name, you idiot, he told himself.

"Barton." John smiled but there was no amusement in his eyes or his features. "Barton Collins." Saying his name to an empty house. How far he'd come in 6 months. John prepared his breakfast--tea and a piece of toast, nay, bread really having not found his toaster yet. Better unpack the kitchen today and have some time to go to market. As he took in the front room again, telling himself that curtains better be at the top of the shopping list, John frowned slightly. His first solo album, one that had shot to the top of the charts after he had started dating Barton, was pulled out from where he had carefully placed it along with the other records of that genre. He moved it back, then stared at it as if trying to understand how that had happened. Could he have sleepwalked and did this? A possibility although sleepwalking wasn't in his past. John frowned and rinsed his cup, then got ready to go to town for food and drapes.

That night John hung the drapes. The curtain rods were buggers and he had to drill holes in the walls to hold up the wooden rods. Once done, however, the dark blue curtains ("guaranteed to blot out the light!" screamed the advert on the side of the package) looked nice with the walls and with his furniture. He was ready for a shower, sweaty and tired from all of his handiwork so he quickly placed out his towel on the stool and blasted the water full when he got under the spray.

Sherlock frowned as he looked at the new additions to the windows. Personally, he enjoyed seeing the bright sunlight shining through the panes and now this...this would block out the rays of the light! For not the first time that evening, Sherlock wished he had been successful in tripping the power so that none of the fancy drills the small man had used would work but he did not know enough about electrical boxes (not really his area) to do any real damage. Sherlock had, however, attempted to sway the ladder when the man was on it and that had simply succeeded in the man pausing, considering what had happened, then going back to what he was doing with that madding loud instrument! The man was in the shower, using, Sherlock sniffed, something with lavender and bergamot. It was pleasant and smelled good. Sherlock wandered into the bathroom and stood there, observing the man as he had a wash.

John Watson was short no doubt about that. He only came up to maybe Sherlock's shoulder. He was in his late thirties (had Sherlock read that about him somewhere?), a musician all of his life, and kind of a music outsider in that he shunned award shows (although he had won a few) and the spotlight to just be a recluse. Then 6 months ago (at least according o the article, since Sherlock thought all time was relative), John's lover/partner/producer had died of a self inflicted bullet to the head, in front of John and a trio of musicians who were working on Barton Collins' last record. Sherlock knew what it was like to be dead, to die, to be alone and he didn't think anyone should wish themselves no longer living. It was just a waste. And it seemed that John Watson was now suffering from it.

The shower was off and John stepped out searching for his towel that was placed on the stool that was just out of his reach. Sherlock impulsively handed it to him and then stepped aside. John paused, frowned and looked around the small bathroom as if confused. Sherlock sighed and sat down on the stool which was to the left of the sink.

"Who's here? Why did you mess up my records? Where are you?"

Sherlock smiled. If this little man thought he was going to show himself, well then he was in for a surprise. Toying with him would be fun though so Sherlock moved the stool just a  bit so it squeaked. John jumped and swallowed then looked wildly around.

"Look, you, whatever you are...I don't want any trouble. I'm just here for a little while. Share the house for a bit. DOn't worry. I will be gone soon too. So whoever you are...wherever you are," And his eyes lit upon the very stool where Sherlock was sitting with one long leg crossed over the other, " know that I am friendly." John stopped and put up his hands for emphasis. "And not likely to interfere in your business. I think we can co inhabit this place, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said but he heard nothing as did John. Someday maybe his words would be clear. And then, watch out, he would have plenty to say!

"Good." John wrapped the towel around his middle and walked briskly to his bedroom, looking this way and that way in the hallway.

"You won't find me there, John. Try to open your eyes. I'm laying right beside you on the bed." Sherlock stretched and yawned, mimicking John who  was doing the same.

"Good night whoever you are-"

"Sherlock."

"And sweet dreams." John closed his eyes and thought of nothing until the medication kicked in.


	2. Just Hanging Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thinks John Watson might be the most interesting man in the world.

John placed the muffler on the snare drum head, the last drum he had to muffle so the neighbours wouldn't complain about his pounding and banging. He was pretty sure that because of the distance the cottage/house was situated from the road, people wouldn't be able to hear him anyways, but he wanted to be sure. He stared at the black rubber tops of his Pearl 5 piece set. It was basic, along with the high hat he had absconded with from his last sessions gig in Atlanta, and the bass drum pedal that he had made specifically for his small foot, size 8 if you please. His cymbals were invested, though, all Zildjians and all top of the line. His crash cymbal especially was his favourite and the marks of his drum sticks imbedded in the metal was a true testament of this.

John adjusted his throne and kicked experimentally into the bass. It thumped against the padded muffler, and John sighed. He loved the sounds of his drums. Maybe next time he would try to just rock out without the rubber pads and see if anyone complained.

Sherlock stood behind John and looked over the contraption in front of him. Was this a 'drum set' and why had John put the black smelly pads on top of the drums? All very odd indeed. They were supposed to make noise, Sherlock thought, not sound like a sickening thonk, like a raven hitting window glass. At that thought, he suppressed a giggle. When John went to play a rhythmic combination of the clanky metal thing that was propelled by one foot as he beat on the rubber pads of the drums, Sherlock held his hands to his ears. This just sounded so wrong! With an impatient hand, Sherlock pulled the rubber mat off the smallest of the drums, the one that sat between John's strong little legs so when he hit the surface, it made an appreciative snapping sound.

"Who's there? Oh my God, did you do that???" John sat dazed. He swallowed hard as he looked at the rubber muffler that sat on the floor against the tom. It had flown through the air as he was rattling off a nifty shuffle. "Leave my drums alone, you dark creature!"

Sherlock frowned. 'Dark creature?' Where in the name of Certes did this small man get that from? He was no 'dark creature' that was for sure, and he did not want to get off on the wrong foot with him because, well, Sherlock kind of liked him living there. Out of all the people who had passed through those doors, and Sherlock had seen many, John Watson was the most interesting and coolest person of them all!

"Don't you do that again. If I want them off the heads, I will take them off, not you!" John pointed into the air making Sherlock grin.

"I am over here, John. Behind you in fact." Sherlock leaned against the wall behind them.

"So. Are we clear?" After a moment, John continued, still looking straight ahead. "GIve me a sign...if you ...agree.." John moaned and rubbed his head. Oh now that sounded incredibly horror movie in 3D -like. He waited but there was nothing.

"John, I am not going to play your stupid games." Sherlock sighed and wiggled off to the kitchen. There were spices to sniff and tea towels to mess up. He had watched John fold them just so and the temptation to mess with them was strong.

"Come on! One sign!!!" John cleared his throat and cocked his head. Nothing. "Fine." He sighed and began to focus on his drumming. He had a certain rhythm in mind for one of his songs and he concentrated on getting it down just right, momentarily forgetting that there may...or may not...be someone else living here. Someone he could not see!

 

As he walked into the kitchen he could not see the tall pale curly headed young man occupying a kitchen stool that was slightly askance from the other 2 along the bar. Instead, what he saw was a pile of tea towels, all unfolded and messed up, laying all over the Formica and wooden dining area. He stopped, swallowing hard. This was madness!!! He had folded the towels himself after taking them out of the dryer! Each towel had received 3 folds after being carefully placed seam to seam in half, of course.

"OK, THIS isn't funny!" John whirled around and tried to see anyone but there was nothing but the emptiness and quiet of the kitchen appliances and accruements staring back at him. He drew in a deep breath and stood as tall as his 5 foot 6 inch frame would let him. "STOP doing this to ...to MY things....whoever you are...."

"Sherlock." Sherlock yawned and pushed the stool in, causing John to start at the noise and just stare at it.

"I am...losing my mind..." He rubbed his eyes and stared at the stool again. Sherlock's lips tugged upward in a smile and he pushed the stool again with his foot. It moved just a bit but it was enough. "Oh my God. You really ARE a ghost, aren't you? And you're in my house." John chuckled then sat down on the very stool that Sherlock had kicked to move it. "OK. Fine. Ground rules then. Because I am insane and I am talking to a ghost." John puffed and shook his head. "Leave my towels alone. And all my laundry for that matter. Don't touch my drums. Or my keyboards. Or my guitars. You want to play music, go play a harp or whatever it is you ghosts play."

"Harp." Sherlock's lips changed from the smile to a curl of disdain. "So hundred years ago."

"Can I...can I hear you???" John paused and cocked his head again, listening for the faintest of sounds that he had heard just seconds before. "I mean, I might be half deaf because of the career and all but...is that you...saying things?"

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. Well, not really buzzed but started to play an old Fleetwood Mac tune. That broke the mood and as he quickly answered it, Sherlock glided back into the front room. He ignored the drums now, (John wasn't playing them) and sat down on the sofa, one hand testing how comfortable the cushions were. It was quite fine, he thought. John was yammering to someone, someone he called Simon but Sherlock just shut him out. He hoped that john would eventually turn on the telly to watch some programs, although last night's endless parade of news and sports became a bit boring, leaving Sherlock to wait for John in John's bedroom. While Sherlock was there, he had opened up cologne and sniffed at each scent, as well as gone through the drawers of John's dresser. Such ordinary pants! Not a red pair to be found! THAT had been a major disappointment. After all, this John WAS a musician so he should have had some adventures with the opposite or same sex and to do that, he would have needed some snazzy pants!

John's voice became louder and Sherlock glanced up from his reveries to see the small man making his way from the kitchen, where he had once again folded up all of the towels and placed them neatly in the drawer, holding a carton of yogurt. John almost sat on Sherlock, causing the young man to move down until he was against the arm of the sofa. John continued to eat, and idly picked up the remote to go channel surfing.

News. Pause, Listen. Up a channel. Sports. Pause. Listen. Look. Up a couple of more channels. Pause. Shake head. Go up the channels. Wait! There was Lifetime, a Romance Network that Sherlock had seen plenty of when Mrs. Mattson had lived in the house very briefly. The stories were insipid and whiny but Sherlock had grown used to them. John had merely harrumphed and continued past it.

"If you think I'm watching BBC NEws again, you have another thing coming." Sherlock grabbed ahold of the remote, causing John to breath in sharply and audibly. His fingers clenched tightly but Sherlock could jab the buttons and after programming in channel 24, he let go and leaned back. Ah, "Devil's Pond with Tara Reid." Sherlock nodded. A fine movie, if one were completely stupid and believed that some chick would blindly accompany her weirdo groom to a deserted island! Still, it was better than the news. Sherlock settled in to watch it.

"Fuck this. Who ....I wish you wouldn't do that! I don't want to watch this drivel!" John poked the buttons back to 54, the BBC Sports network. Sherlock frowned and jabbed in '24' then 'select' effectively changing the channel again. "You really are an annoying git!" John focused on the remote and Sherlock decided enough was enough!

"No. More. SPORTS CHANNELS!" Sherlock knocked the remote out of John's hand. On the screen, Tara Reid was debating on whether or not to have sex with her husband after he burned her birth control pills. "Oscar worthy she isn't, John. But it's better than looking at Wayne Mooney's ugly face."

John seemed resigned to his fate. He stared at the remote on the floor, then put his feet up, folding them behind himself. He ate his yogurt in silence as Sherlock sat there, watching John more than the movie and thinking things were getting interesting indeed.


	3. Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tit for tat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for liking this little story. I am sorry I have not updated it in a while but real life is unfortunetly real. Hope you like this chapter!

John got off the bus and looked up and down the sleepy street of the town where he now lived. He looked, not for the first time, at the paper in his hand. **City Library** was printed neatly at the top, with directions he had Googled that morning right below. John checked to see if he was on the correct street--and he was--so he began walking east towards the main square, enjoying the sun and the smell of the hanging baskets full of petunias that adorned the light poles. It was a pleasant day for a stroll and he had almost forgotten his plan but when he saw a couple walking hand in hand across the street, a familiar voice inside of his head began and he lowered his eyes, feeling a bit overwhelmed with sadness. This was his life now, he supposed. All the music he had made, all the people he had accompanied, all the shows he had played paled in comparison to the hollow patch in his life. John swallowed hard, managing to keep the tears at bay, and continued walking until he stood in front of a pair of older weathered doors. The sign indicated that he was in the right place. He shoved the paper into his pocket and entered, feeling the coolish blast of the ac hit him full bore.

Stepping around the display of popular magazines, John paused at the circulation desk and squared his shoulders. He wasn't fond about giving out his secrets to strangers, but he needed some help to know where to look and the lady behind the desk looked innocuous enough.

Clearing his throat to break the silence, John raised his eyebrows and smiled as the lady noticed him.

"May I help you?" She smiled back, a nice smile, not just a courtesy smile, Martin thought.

"Well yes, if you can, that is, I was wondering um about something. Some books you may have."

"If you are looking for books," she answered, smiling even wider and indicating the surroundings with a wave of one hand, "then you have come to the right place. What can I help you with? A reading selection perhaps? Or maybe a book about England?"

"England?" John scratched his head and frowned.

"Well, I DID notice that you're English. From England and all."

"Ohhhh, yes, that." John laughed and the lady librarian laughed too. "Well, I am from England, yes. But...that's not why I'm here. I was wondering actually..." John paused.

"Wondering? Wondering...what?" Her eyebrows knitted together as if she was trying to figure out the puzzle that John had given to her.

"Uhhh well you see...." John thought fast. "I am actually looking for a...or rather some...um....books about..."

"Sexuality?" The woman asked helpfully.

"What? Oh no. No, not that. I um know that perhaps people might think that um this isn't a good subject to discuss, or rather I suppose it depends on your point of view..." John swallowed hard and then sighed. "Do you have anything about haunted houses? Like, specifically, books that tell you yes, you have a ghost or no, it's your imagination." John said that a bit too quickly but she leaned in and nodded conspiratorially.

"Yes we do. We most certainly do."

A moment passed while they were still staring at each other. John cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. "Can you tell me where to find them then?"

"Oh certainly." She adjusted her reading glasses, then just gave up on them entirely and put them on a stack of paper that she was looking at, and came around the desk by a swinging gate.  John kept the smile on his face. He didn't want her to think him a nutter; rather, he wished she had a good opinion of him in case she was a gossip. "Come this way."

John followed her, looking about at  the shelves of books as they walked deeper into the stacks. She finally stopped and with a wave of her hand, she indicated a series of books midway up the shelf.

"This is what we have. I could see if Midtown Library has anything more if this isn't what you are looking for. Why did you say you needed them?"

"For a friend's play..he's writing a play. Yes, a play." John put on a blank face and then grinned, trying to be charming. "He needs me to research some things."

"Ohhh, is it a famous writer?" She looked more than interested, but seemed to have forgotten about her original question.

"Quite famous, yes, but I am not at liberty to say who just yet." John's voice dropped into a husky whisper and he leaned forwards so his mouth was beside her ear. "When we are done with the research, I will let you know."

"Deal." She walked off without a backwards glance leaving John to peruse the books she had pointed out.

 

John took his time, taking each book off the shelf (there were 5 in all, not a large selection but then again, he was doing just a bit of research. He wasn't staying around long, truth be known.) and looking it over. The first book--"Is Your House Hanuted? Poltergeists Ghosts or Bad Wiring" by  Debi Chestnut--looked promising. Another such book in the same genre promised complete ghost obliteration--"Ghosts and Hauntings" by Callen Wilder. And there was a third book he considered--"How To Get Rid of Ghosts" by an organization called the Mystic Circle. All good choices. John mused then selected the three of them and then remembered he had neither library card nor desire to get one.

Looking around for the librarian, John moved furtively around the room. She was engaged in talking on the phone, her back turned towards John and the door. Quickly, the small man pushed the books under his coat and walked briskly out the door. He intended to return every last tome before he had no need of the written word, and he hoped she would understand, but getting a card to borrow the books made no sense at this point. 

Thankfully, the bus was just pulling into the bus stop so John coolly tucked the books under his arm and boarded, throwing the correct change into the metal box by the driver. First step achieved. He needed to figure out what lived in his house, and if it was necessary to correct it somehow.

 

Sherlock stomped around the cottage and then threw himself into the big chair by the fireplace. He would have rather the small interesting man make music with his instruments but this morning, after a wash, he had left, taking the bus into the city. It figured that something else held the interest of humans, although Sherlock wasn't sure if what he felt was jealousy or loneliness.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had taken interest in anyone who had lived in the cottage. There had been many over the past hundred years. Some were families with nasty and screaming children. Some were newlyweds or older couples. There had been a quasi famous actress at one time; she was rather an interesting case. She believed in the 'afterlife' and wanted to conduct weekly séances. Sherlock did not mean to be a pest but when he rapped on the table then overturned it into the lap of her mousy agent, that was the end of those parties and she had moved out the next week. One person had brought a priest in to 'bless the house' after Sherlock had rearranged his toiletries. A good dousing of the holy water and some Latin mumbo jumbo had kept Sherlock amused and made the carpet and windowsills wet.

It was certainly true that the spirit that he was did not mean any harm or wrongdoing to the physical living human beings that came to live in the cottage. Sherlock had been a very private man when he was ...on that side of the earth...but now he was..more to the metaphysical world, he could be a bit more social. And the truth was, he liked people. He liked seeing them interact and he liked looking at their things. Sherlock loved to nib nose around peeking at clothes and hobbies and just absorbing what kinds of things people had. He missed the toiletries and the smell of a good cologne on himself. In the living days, he used to take 2 showers a day one in the morning and one at night and shaved at least once a day because he loved the way his smooth skin felt under his long fingers. This John Watson seemed to be cut of the same cloth. A hot shower in the morning, a shave, then off to do his thing. At night, a soak in the tub, followed by a quick shower and into bed. And out of all the people who had graced the doorstep, John Watson was undoubtedly the most interesting one. Or so Sherlock had decided.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard the lock turning. Oh so he was at last home was he? Sherlock wondered where he had gone but his questions were answered when he saw the books in John's arms. Books that belonged to the public library since there was a stamp on the front that advertised this. Sherlock peered at the titles and stifled a laugh. Of ghosts or poltergeists or plumbing, he thought. Which am I?

 

John made himself a quick toasted cheese sandwich and then sat down to look at his bounty of books. He wanted to be open minded about this. Although he had never had a "supernatural" experience, he was generally open minded about the universe and there appeared to be SOMETHING in the cottage that he could not see. If it was a spirit it was actually friendly even though it seemed to like Lifetime. John had had MTV Hits on for some noise while he showered and when he had come out, the channel had been switched to TLC and a docudrama about the Amish. John had made a noise and just as quickly, MTV HIts had come back on. John had waved his thanks while he got dressed, noting with some alarm that the music today was nothing like the preferred music of his youth. John had turned off the tv and played his record player instead, jamming to All Mod Cons a classic by Paul Weller and the Jam, holding his hairbrush as he sang along.

So now on to the book then. He read some paragraphs of the one by Debi Chestnut but the facts in it were vague and bordering on An Idiot's Guide to Ghosts. Just not very scientific or informative, John thought. He placed it on the table beside him and reached to pick up another selection when the book he had just rejected floated up through the air and opened as if someone were standing beside him and leafing through it. Oh, John thought, this was amazing! He wished he had had his camera to video it but then decided that it was better just to watch and experience it himself. People would probably think he had rigged something up, because people were basically nonbelievers.

"Hello? Hello? I'm John. What's your name?" Oh bollocks, he was talking to a ghost, a spirit, a phantom, an apparition, a haunt or a spook or a hundred different other things he couldn't even begin to imagine.

The book hovered then was laid back down gently. If John could have seen that Sherlock was now kneeling in front of him, hands placed on John's knees, then he would have been surprised surely. As it was, John had paused and looked down, feeling an undercurrent of warmth spread over both of his knees. He smiled.

"I see you've made my acquaintance. Very pleased to meet you and I don't think I will be needing these books. You are welcome to live here with me. I won't bother you...for..." his voice faltered. He had almost forgotten his original intent. The wooden box was still tucked away in his closet, under his shoes and boots. This had momentarily distracted him from his plan, a plan that he had formulated a while ago, watching them bury his lover. "Anyways...hope you enjoyed the music this morning. I am not much for the telly."

Sherlock cocked his head and stared at the small man sitting in the chair. SO John Watson could feel him somehow? This intrigued Sherlock. What manner of man could possibly detect the touch of a ..ghost... Sherlock smiled to himself. He trailed his hands up John's legs, and John surprised him by giving a little yelp and standing suddenly all but pushing Sherlock back.

"Blimey, mate, don't DO that!" John began to pace the room, playing with the collar of his shirt and clearing his throat. He saw the empty plate where his sandwich had been so he grabbed it and walked out to the small kitchen, rinsing it under the faucet and throwing it in the dish rack beside the sink. "I really don't mind you living here. But please.." John raised one finger and bit his bottom lip. Sherlock stood in front of the small man, amused at the stance. "DON'T think you can evilly seduce me with your..ghostliness!"

Ghostliness. Sherlock laughed and wandered back to the living room. He picked up the remote and turned on the tv, then settled back on the couch. He had learned to channel surf from a producer who had lived here in the late 90's when sat dishes were the thing to have. He employed this technique now, changing from channel to channel without effort, hand holding the remote so it was aimed at the flat screen.

"Give me that!" John grabbed it back and plunked down in the recliner with a small huff. Sherlock supposed he would let the man pick the channel, at least this time. He sat back and saw smugly that John did not pause on news or sports networks but was looking at the tier with the educational shows. When he stopped at "1000 Ways to Die", Sherlock felt a ripple go through him and he looked closely at the man. John was watching intently with so much sadness in his eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock knew what the man was going to do here.

And he could not...let that happen....

It was his turn to do some research of his own.

 


	4. It's Who You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a visitor or 2 and Sherlock goes hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making me happy with kudos and comments! SOrry it has taken me so long to update. I really will try harder to write sooner in the future.! And for the person who asked me about the prompts, please let me know what you'd like!  
> Talk about suicide. If you are sensitive to that, then please skip chapter.

John had to admit that renting or buying a place in America was the only way to go. People here in the small town of Billerica MA were not used to having celebrity in their midsts and people here hardly knew who John was anyways. He could come and go as he pleased, use his ATM card wherever he shopped, and generally create no ripples in the public's undercurrents. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner was his only regret for buying this bungalow.

On this particular morning, a warm spring day, John had slept fitfully. It had been a week since he had gone to the library to get the books about ghosts and in that time, he had noticed that while he had not read a single chapter in any of them, they had been moved, bookmarked with tear offs of some of his discarded music sheets, and seemingly read from cover to cover. This was very odd in itself, John thought, for if indeed he had some kind of spirit here, HOW did it have full physical capabilities for performing these kinds of activities? It piqued his curiosity and made him wish that he were more of an expert in that kind of thing. However, it did not seem to be a malevolent spirit or ghost so John did nothing to get rid of it. Instead, he just went on with his music making and his writing and his plans that now included a farewell letter to his Mother and sister, Harriet. John supposed that he owed them that much and if someone found his body (who? well, that wasn't for him to worry about now was it) then he would want the necessary goodbye dramatics just so they would know it was not their fault.

But it was at this point when John's resolve would waver. He thought about the hurt it would cause them, the pain it would mean to have to bury him, her only son and her only sibling. He supposed it was selfish, and it was, but he just kept thinking about the prospect of a life without Barton and that made not only his heart hurt but his insides ache for something lost and final.

John shook his head as he walked out to the kitchen to make a cuppah. America had such lax tea offerings. Popular at the market he shopped in was a variety of Earl Grey tea that made him about want to retch, it was so weak and tasteless. Thankfully, he had found a small shelf of British imports at the store and even though they only featured one kind of British tea it would be enough. John had purchased enough of the Taylor's of Harrogate tea to supply a small army, effectively wiping out the supply from the store's shelf. He had wished for his favourite, PG Tips Tea but no such luck so he had settled.

As he miffed his tea, he heard a shuffling sound at his front door and then a decisive knock. Frowning, John turned and glancing back at his steaming cuppah, sighed and walked over to answer the door.

"Yes?" John asked pleasantly enough, opening the door just wide enough to see who it was. He was greeted to the sight of 2 men who were standing side by side, each one wearing a blue jacket with some kind of embroidery writing on the placate. John raised his eyebrows as he observed first one then the other. The taller of the 2 men spoke first, surprising John with a definite British posh accent.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson. My name is Mycroft Holmes and this is my associate Gregory Lestrade."

John waited for a moment as the man stopped and smiled, a less than convincing smile but a smile nonetheless.

"Look, if you are from the press and found out somehow where I am," John raised his hands in a palms out gesture, "You can just go back to wherever you came from and forget you found me."

"I guarantee you, Mr. Watson, that we are here for no such thing. Actually, we've come to ask you a small favour that might entail you...taking a leap with us."

"Look, I don't know who you are or what you really want, but if you don't leave now, I will call the police." John began to close the door.

"So very sorry, Mr. Watson but we don't mean to trouble you." It was the other man speaking and his eyes were earnest and steely blue. He had close cropped greying hair and handsome yet rugged features. "We only want to ask you some questions about your house. Some questions that might involve..." he paused and looked around as if he thought the bushes were listening, "Ghosts."

"What? Ghosts???" John was taken aback. The men in front of him continued to stand there and look like they were doing some silent pleading. "What does your coat say? What's that on the front?"

"Oh this?" the man called Lestrade pulled his placate out a bit and squinted down at the writing. "London Paranormal Team." He glanced at his friend, then beamed at John. It was a friendly look and John sighed and considered.

2 Brits, clearly a long way from home, just like him, and belonging to a paranormal team? John had watched some shows on tv, one off reality silliness that always involved tricks and gimmicks to relay to the viewer that the place they were investigating was haunted. John had had a mild interest in the subject since an experience when he was 9 had taught him to re think that there might be other dimensions at work, other places that could easily dissolve into the present. He had always stated that he had had none, no experience with the 'other side' but the truth was, it had been pretty damned definite that there might be more than meets the eye in the world. And now this. These men who looked very hopeful and sincere. John just hoped he was doing the right thing in trusting them.

"Alright. You can both come in. But it you're tossers, then I will call the police and rightfully so. You have 15 minutes to give me your spiel. That's more time than the average contestant on the X Factor." John opened the door and waved them in with a hand.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock yawned and began to concentrate on floating. It wasn't like he couldn't do this. He had often gone up to the next 'level' as it was known but it took some doing for him to focus especially since now his world was all about looking after John Watson. He supposed in his OWN day, he would not have been so caring or so interested. In fact, he was often talked about as 'arrogant' and 'interested only in himself.' He supposed that had been true once, but living as he had, if living was indeed the right word for it, in the last 200 or so years, he had learned to at least think about other people.

OK, then float. Concentrate, he told himself. Oh this was ridiculous. He wanted to concentrate but couldn't with the sounds of some other people in the main room. Oh how he wanted to go see who it was. He supposed he could just peek through the wall but NO, he MUST concentrate so he could do his research. There was NO time to gawk and peek and look. Now then. He shook his head and felt his curls go all wild. Impatiently, he raked a hand through them just giving them more reason to spring up and about like some unfettered wiglet. 

Up. Up. Up. His eyelids drooped as he thought about floating. Up. Up. Up. Floating high above. He felt his body physically lift off and float through layers of strange clouds. Shimmery bright light clouds of feathers and fluff and all the above when he was just going to relax all limbs and all tension gone from his body

"SHERLOCK!!"

Sherlock jumped, feeling the bile rise in his mouth from being so scared. His body jarred to a stop as his skinny buttocks hit the hard surface of a floor. He glared at the man in front of him.

"Really Dan. Where is Raffi? I need to talk to him."

"Busy." The figure Sherlock called Dan examined his nails and then thoughtfully waved them this way and that, admiring their pearly surfaces.

"Well make him UN-busy." Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest, having stood up from his precarious landing.

"Nope."

"Oh why must you be such a ...bollocks twister???" Sherlock stomped his foot, realizing that the cloud he was on was giving out little vibrations, kind of like whines.

"DOn't do that. You're disturbing Karma."

"Disturbing...Karma??" Sherlock practically spit out. He began to pace in quite the same way he had done when among the 'living.' "You're one to talk. Writing a damned book to get your foot in the Gates."

"Yes, and I will be the first to admit it. Brilliant though wasn't it? Still studied today and the oft subject of plays, songs, and many a theological discussion. What have YOU done?" Dan looked intently into Sherlock's eyes until the younger man looked away first.

"I suppose nothing on that magnitude."

"Which is exactly why you can't enter. SO. See ya." Dan went back to polishing his nails. Sherlock felt angry and upset all together. He was peeved that his friend and someone who could help him was not stationed there tonight and he was even angrier that Dan would not assist him.

"OK, so I know I can't actually COME in there," Sherlock said quickly, not focusing on why he could not, "but could you please go get Raffi?"

"What's in it for me?" Dan looked up suspiciously.

"I'll not bug you any longer. You can just sit here and do whatever it is you do, as gatekeeper of this area....and I will not bother you."

"For how long?" Dan was still staring at Sherlock.

"I don't know!" Sherlock said explosively. "I just need Raffi! Will you help me? Or will you just ...continue to let me beg and plead?" Sherlock was reaching the end of his patience. If Dan wanted a full blown tantrum then that is what Sherlock would give him.

"All right, Sherlock. Don't get niggly about it. I'll go get him. Wait here."

"As if I could wait anywhere else." Sherlock watched Dan go, admiring his wings. Sherlock had no wings. He had no halo no harp no white gown no pretty silver shoes nothing. He just wore what he usually wore, a black suit with a dark purple shirt. He had tried to change his clothes when it had first happened but to no avail. He was stuck with this. Sherlock was always a bit resentful that he did not have all of the accruements that the other angels had. He had asked Raffi once, and the man, his friend, had just turned a soft gaze to Sherlock and shrugged. He had said in his dulcet tones, 'because maybe that's not what you are."

Sherlock had thought about that long and hard and still thought about it to this day. So if he wasn't what Dan and Raffi were, then WHAT was he exactly???? Meaning WHAT really. His present line of thinking was cut short when he recognized the familiar sight of his friend.

"Raffi!!!" Sherlock grinned and allowed the elder to embrace him in sweet smelling silken gilded lined wings and arms. "Thank you for coming."

"Dante said it was urgent." Rafael, or Raffi to Sherlock, gazed deep into the eyes of the younger before him. "What is it then Sherlock? Still wondering why you don't have wings like us?"

"No, that's not it." Sherlock looked away, ashamed at his previous thoughts. "I just want to find out...where someone...can be found....if he is here...or not..."

"As opposed to being...?" Rafael let the question hang.

"Oh, I don't know if he's ...THERE...or not...but you could find out...couldn't you?" Sherlock put on his best face. He was aware that he was asking a LOT of his friend and wondered if he had any right to do that. In the face of John Watson's misery, though, Sherlock had to know.

Rafael regarded Sherlock with a blank expression but inside, the big angel was weighing the pros and cons. If he helped Sherlock like this, would it be the last time he asked. It was against the principles really but being in the ELite Corps like Rafael was made him privy to certain types of information. Sherlock knew this. And let's face it, Sherlock looked so hopeful that Rafael was finding it hard to just say no.

"And why do you ask?" Rafael's eyes narrowed. "Oh. It's not FOR you. It's for a human. It's for,..." Rafael closed those eyes and swept with his mind. "John Watson."

"Yes." Sherlock actually looked ashamed.

"Very well. Give me the name."

"What?" Sherlock looked up incredulously.

"The NAME! Give me the name!!!" Rafael tapped one silver slippered foot impatiently.

"Oh, his name is Barton Collins."

"When did he pass?" Rafael took a deep breath and swayed slightly.

"6 months prior. On a Sunday. Does that help?" Sherlock leaned forward.

Rafael's eyes flew open and to Sherlock's relief, they were amused. "Really? On a Sunday?" With eyes closed again, the larger being then began to pace, all the while muttering under his breath. Within a few minutes, it seemed he had an answer. He faced a hopeful looking Sherlock.

"Well?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, face all open and curious.

"First tell me why you are doing this for a human who is living and breathing and not in your own realm." Rafael was stony faced.

"Because John Watson is...." Sherlock searched for the words. "As lonely as I am and instead of being just alone he is also badly hurt inside. I feel his pain when he breathes. I want to help him...if I can..."

There was a long moment of silence in which both Sherlock and Rafael locked eyes. Then the older being spoke.

"He is neither here nor there."

"What?" Sherlock looked aghast. "Well he has to be somewhere. He's not here and if he's not here then he must be ...there..." Sherlock looked down but quickly caught himself and again met Rafael's gaze. "There must be a mistake."

"No mistake, Sherlock. I've checked the records. Nobody by that name or aura has come here...and nobody has gone there."

"But if Barton Collins isn't here...or there then he ...he ...must be...alive!!!" Sherlock said with a disbelieving squeal. So the mystery deepened. If he was to save John Watson then he had better get back to the house. There was much to be done.

 

 


	5. Heaven Hide Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting into some deeper stuff here...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you for the comments!!! I confess to being the biggest unscientific nerd ever so bear with me while i attempt to explain what has happened to our dear Sherlock...xx

John thought he should offer Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade tea. It was, after all, the very British and decent thing to do. As he gathered their coats from them, he glanced at the team tag name on the placate. London Paranormal eh? Had never heard of it but it was more than likely because John did not travel in those circles. He hung up the coats, then busied himself making tea, watching the men out of the corner of his eye as he poured and measured and stirred. He threw together some biscuits on a plate and a pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar, and finished, came out with the tray balanced carefully in his hands. Mr. Holmes stood up and took the tray from him and put it down on the smallish coffee table in front of the sofa where the 2 men were sitting. John draped himself in a recliner across from them.

John had to admit that he was somewhat--ok, VERY--curious as to why 2 British men whom he had never met nor heard of had shown up at his very door. He hoped the mystery would be solved through conversation. Otherwise, John thought, he would definitely throw their asses out to the street.

"Help yourself. Pleased to announce that this is tea straight from Mother England. I get it at a store here in town." John was silent as he watched the other 2 Brits get their cups and then sit back, watching John as though they were appraising him. "Well? I'm waiting for the story." John took neither tea of biscuit but sat, with for all intents and purposes, he hoped a patient pose.

"It gets a bit complicated," Mr. Holmes began, stirring the sugar into his cup. He raised his cup and took a sip, then nodded appreciatively. "The hotel we are staying at has neither tea nor the good sense to buy any. We've had to suffer with the horrible American versions of coffee."

"Yeah, but it's from Starbucks, so that isn't all bad." Mr. Lestrade piped in. John watched as the man called Holmes gave his friend a cautionary look, as though telling him nonverbally to leave the talking to him.

"Yes well," John began clearing his throat as he talked, "That's all well and good but if I had wanted to know about the hotel I would have gone there myself. What exactly are you 2 doing...at my house? I mean, seriously. What? Is it on a register of haunted sites or something? Is it in a book that you have both read? What do you want and why me?" John was aware that he was leaning forward and his body language was screaming confrontational so he sat back; his dark blue eyes were serious as he regarded his guests.

"That is a little hard to explain, you see." The man called Holmes began, putting his tea cup down on the tray and steepling his fingers as though that was paramount to thought. "It Is rather a long story."

"I've got all day," John answered.

"Oh come on, Mycroft! Don't lie to him. Just tell him how it is!" Greg Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned back, a direct contrast to the man beside him. At that outburst, Holmes looked pained but the annoyance on his face was replaced by one of agreement, or so John thought.

"Lie to me? Oh now, that's not good. You 2 are gonna find yourselves out on the street, walking back to where you came from. This isn't a good time to play games, ask me riddles, access my home to do what, I don't even know. SO YES, I would appreciate it if you would just. Tell. Me!" The look on John's face was not friendly. In fact, it was downright hostile.

"John Watson, you are a musician, yes?" Holmes said smoothly. If he was intimidated by John, he did not let on.

"Yes."

"And I am sure in your career, you have seen plenty of...oddities. Things that aren't exactly right. Am I correct?"

"Well, I don't know if I would say that. I avoided the drugs scene. I never touched the hallucinogenics and I don't have a drinking problem. This I'm sure disappoints you but I really don't see what this has to do with--"

"Suspend belief for just a moment, please. I want to tell you a story." Holmes paused, watching John's face. The small man looked even grumpier but not as angry. Perhaps curiosity had won out after all.

There was silence from John as he considered this. A story??? A bloody story??? From 2 men he had never met never seen before and who were now sitting in his house drinking tea.

"Would it make you feel any better to say that we are not from the London Paranormal Team. In fact," Holmes sniffed, "I went to all of that trouble to have these jackets created and I can't even say now that they helped us in the door to your place." He focused solely on John who was not wilting from his intense stare. "But I do know a thing or two about the mystery of your ...invisible house mate. So if you would humour me, I will begin."

"So you're not....on ...any team..."John said slowly. His eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of joke? I should call the police." As John got up, Lestrade quickly stood and grabbed John's arm gently.

"Please. Hear him out. We aren't here to cause you any harm or make you upset. We just thought we needed an IN to get inside and talk to you. The jackets were my idea in case you are wondering. Please just let Mycroft speak."

John sighed and considered the look on the man named Lestrade's face. He was almost begging with his eyes. Reluctantly, John nodded, then sat back down. He WAS curious as to what these 2 men could offer on his unusual situation. How did they know about the activity here? He decided it wouldn't hurt to let them tell him why. If it got too fantastical, he WOULD give them the boot.

Mycroft Holmes half closed his eyes as though this was a painful recounting of his past. He began speaking, quietly, sadly, almost reverently.

"I haven't always been the most forthcoming person but I do believe that for all of our sakes, I will tell you the most honest state of events as I can." He took a deep breath before he continued and John had to lean forward to hear him. "I once had a brother, well, I say once, I still do although he is no longer...with us. In this realm, in this time period. His name was...IS..Sherlock Holmes and he was ...IS...a Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. In fact, he invented the title."

"Consulting Detective..." John muttered then raised his eyebrows. "What exactly does that mean?"

"He helps me and Scotland Yard on a number of cases. He is pretty invaluable to us, at least he had been before..." Lestrade's voice trailed off and he glanced at his companion.

"Before???" John grabbed a biscuit off the plate and began to chew it nervously. He wasn't sure he liked where this was heading but once  again he was curious enough to just listen.

"Before he met someone who turned out to be less than up front about some particular experiments he was doing." Holmes shuddered slightly and then met John's wide eyed gaze with a calculated one of his own. "My brother, Sherlock, fell into some rather un reputable and arrogant company causing his demise from the world we live in, the world we know as now."

"So he died?": John said simply.

"That's the thing though. He DIDN'T die. Sherlock was the subject of a disastrous time travelling experiment. I kept telling him that he should leave Moriarty--James Moriarty, the twisted genius who is behind all of this...this...--"

"--Nonsense." Lestrade finished. Mycroft looked at him and immediately, the grey haired man became still. "Sorry, My."

Mycroft took a deep breath and waved his hand around the cottage. "Now you are going to ask me all about how I know this, and why we are here in this particular house. And you will get your answers but just let me explain Moriarty a bit more and what my brother had done to get himself trapped in some ultra dimensional world."

"You really expect me to believe this...this...rubbish? I think you've been watching too many SyFy movies, Mate. What are you going to do? Draw a Pentagram on the floor and wave some black candles around trying to summon your brother? I DO have a number of questions, such as why did he come here, to America, in BumfuckEgypt and how do you know he is in this particular place????" John's face was red with anger and disgust. He stood, balling his fists and puffing his chest out. Before he could do anything else, Lestrade stood and placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"Please. John. Let him continue. It will make sense, I promise."

"And what is your role in all of this crap?" John asked defiantly, eyes sweeping over the hunched and miserable figure of Mycroft Holmes.

"I am a DI with Scotland Yard and I wasn't lying when I said that Sherlock helped us sometimes. He was, IS," he immediately caught himself, "the most brilliant man I have ever met, aside from My here."

John nodded, the light beginning to dawn. "So you and Mycroft Holmes here are...lovers. Is that right?"

"I don't see how that could mean anything to anyone--" Lestrade began but was cut off from Holmes.

"--Yes. Yes, Mr. Watson...we are lovers. And Gregory has helped me through the past 2 years of this personal hell, trying to find Sherlock. Have you ever lost a loved one, Mr. Watson? Ever just had him or her vanish as if they were never there?"

"As a matter of fact, I have." John stood very still, remembering the pain he had felt, still felt, from the loss of Barton. "I have, yes."

"Of course. Forgive me. And if you had the chance to have that person back  would you go to any means to do that?"

"Yes." John's answer was immediate. He stared into Mycroft's eyes and saw the pain mirrored back to him. "Alright." John sat down. "Go on then."

With a deep sigh and a straightening of Mycroft's shoulders, the man continued his story. "Sherlock was impressed with James--that's Moriarty's first name-- to the point where I thought they were perhaps having an affair. Sherlock would be having dinner with our parents when he would get these..somewhat flirty texts and his attention would certainly not be focused on his dinner plate."

"So they were in love?" John asked.

"In love?" Mycroft ran a hand through his close cut hair. "I wouldn't say that. I think they were in competition with each other, just trying to keep one another from being bored. The trouble was, Sherlock's pursuits were mostly legal. James' interests were trouble and breaking the law. But James WAS smart, smarter than most people and he had a group of admirers who would do anything for him. These admirers included a leading scientist who was experimenting with fusion and particular inversion. He had been experimenting with animals for some time. Sherlock became fascinated because James was always bragging about time travel and how he had been here and there in history. It was, as my brother told me once, like sliding through a history book and hitting all the high points."

"You don't actually think this man, this scientist, could somehow make people travel in and out of time do you? I mean," John snorted, throwing up his arms, "Even our best men in their laboratories can't do that!"

"What they don't want us to know." Mycroft was quiet after he said that. John gaped in disbelief.

"Don't be a nutter, Holmes! That is insane!!!"

"Is it, John?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked icily at the musician. "I have proof that it was done and can be done and is being done. My brother is currently in that flux, a plain if you will, that does not allow him to get out. He may have gone forward or backwards but the one thing that's true, that we know of, thanks to a 'deal' with James is that Sherlock...is here....in this house."

"That....is ...crazy." John breathed through his nose and sharply exhaled through his mouth. He was not a man who normally allowed nonsense to cloud his brain but this was all together nutso on a different level. On a number of levels even!!!

"Crazy it might be. But I want my brother to come back to the here and now so I am asking you for your help. I want to know first, have you experienced anything unusual?"

John wavered before answering. In one way, he could be a total prick and say he had heard/saw/felt nothing but when he looked at Mycroft Holmes and how broken he had seemed when he was  talking about his brother, something hit a chord. John nodded.

"Yes. In fact, the remote to the telly has been commandeered a few times, and sometimes the channels switch. There has been something...someone reading these books and marking the passages with pieces of my music manuscript. All of my toiletries and my wash bag have been thoroughly examined and moved about. He unfolds my towels and rearranges my leftovers in the fridge." Was it John's imagination or did Mycroft straighten up and look very interested? No, the man was almost beaming.

"Sounds very much like my younger brother." Mycroft looked at his friend Gregory who was nodding as well.

"But how the HELL did he end up here? We aren't even in England for God's sake."

"The scientist has a lab at Harvard. There's also a laboratory round the bend in an old church. He converted it to suit his needs. Sherlock booked a ticket to Concord and then leased an auto at the airport. The last activity we have is that auto being found abandoned along the side of this lane, off the main highway. " Mycroft was sipping his tea, looking like a man who had won the lottery.

"Still doesn't explain the reputation this place has got. I did some research and the realtor never told me that this place never stayed occupied too long. One time, a lady who claimed she could talk to the dead rented this house and after a rather eventful séance left without even taking her furniture." John nibbled another biscuit. He had developed an unhealthy taste for Oreos.

"Ah yes, Lady Genevive. I read about her troubles in The National Examiner." Mycroft was all but dancing with glee. The look on his face was pure satisfaction.

"That rag." John made a face.

"Yes, but you must remember, out of all gossip, there is some element of truth."

"If you say so." John looked at Gregory, who was quite silent all this time. "What's your take on this? Do you believe that his brother is haunting this place and if I am getting the concept, has been skipping around time lines, bothering every occupant here?"

"I don't know anything about all that science stuff," admitted the DI. "But I hope it's Sherlock. I sure have missed him."

"Which brings me to a previous question," John said, focusing on Mycroft. The older man raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. "How do you propose to get him back? You know, to the now and present time?"

"Oh that's the easy part, John Watson. Don't you worry."

Mycroft put his tea cup into the saucer and smiled knowingly. Now that he knew that his brother was here, he could proceed with the remedy. This was indeed turning out to be quite the trip!

 

 

 

 


	6. Not SO Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drags his feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following along with this story. :)

"So." John sat and stared at his 2 guests. Mycroft was staring right back while Greg had his eyes fixed on an imaginary piece of lint on the carpet. "If I am to believe your...rather fantastical story about your brother falling in to a bad friendship, discovering he wanted to be a test subject for a mad scientist and then that same brother turning into a ghost or some kind of...extra dimensional THING who can slide between years even centuries....then I would be remiss in saying it all sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me." Mycroft began to speak but John stopped him with a hand raised palm out. "Please let me continue." Mycroft sat back again but still regarded John with an intense look. "Luckily for you, and I say that with the most modest of inflections, I am somewhat open minded. While I stayed away from the things that would have brought illness or addiction or even death in my line of work, I have seen some other...things...that can't be explained away easily. And there does seem to be an invisible but almost tangible force in this house. I even borrowed some books to better understand this." John felt a pang of remorse when he remembered the library books that were askew on the work table. "IF your brother is here, then what precisely are you going to do about bringing him back?"

Mycroft began with a deep breath. His face that once had been so guarded was now rather open and hopeful. "We have an antidote for the injection that the scientist gave my brother. All we have to do is try and find him so we can..somehow hold him down and give it to him. This should rearrange the molecular structure so he appears as we are, instead of as you put it an extra dimensional thing."

"Good luck with that." John shrugged and looked around. "I actually haven't seen or heard him. Well, seen not really but heard him or felt him, no not at all today."

"Can you get him to come out then?" Greg asked.

"Me? I should think he would want to respond to his family if he was going to make some kind of an appearance." John huffed and stood, gathering the empty cups and the biscuit plate. As he looked at the 2 men he was struck by the strange strained smiles each of them were displaying. "Oh what now? Is he mad at you or something?"

"Mad at me." Mycroft repeated. "One might say that if one were so inclined."

"Jesus, if you want me to help you then you have to tell me the truth." John stomped out to the kitchen and put the dishes in the small dishwasher, inwardly fuming. "You can't just come here tell me this fantastical story, then expect me to solve your problems with your brother!"

"It's tough to tell the truth in some instances, John," Greg said.

"Well in this case, it would be APPRECIATED!" John clanked the dishwasher shut and turned to glare at his guests. They did not seem too put off by his glaring though and John finally relaxed and walked back into the living area. "Just please..be honest with me. I can help you if I can with finding...what did you call him...Sherlock...but seriously, you need to be honest with me."

"Sherlock and I had a major row about Moriarty. He left England the next day for this destination. I have never forgiven myself for driving him away and making him think that I didn't...care...about his life or his choices. I was just concerned that he was slipping under the influence of someone evil and I did not want to see that happen again. My brother has made some poor life choices in the past. I can only imagine how he felt when I told him he was tripping merrily down that path again."

"He must be pretty headstrong then?" John asked.

Greg snorted and chuckled. "Headstrong isn't the word to describe Sherlock. But I can think of a few that are."

"Please Gregory," Mycroft said in a soft voice. "Sherlock is a lot of things but I am still incredibly fond of him."

"Alright." John sighed and ran a hand through his close cropped hair. "What do we do first?"

"We wait for Sherlock and then we act." The three men looked at each other and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement over this logic.

"I better make some more tea," John said. "We might be here for a while."

 

 

Sherlock was soaring. He didn't exactly know the logic or the mechanisms behind why or how he could do what he did but he was far from home base and loving it. The feeling he got in his not so physical body was akin to when he used to go to Gramercy Park and ride on the wooden coaster there. Up down turn around stomach going down town. Funny he still remembered the rhyme. The coaster was always something he wanted to ride ever since he had first glimpsed it, at age 3. He had been with his brother, Mycroft, who was upset at even having to take his little brother anywhere let alone the amusement park. But Mummy had insisted as it had been a warm day and Mycroft's counselour in school had recommended that the 10 year old Mycroft get out more and meet people and make friends. Mycroft had no friends. He never wanted any, Sherlock thought. He never even wanted ME, and that was the truth, Sherlock decided.

SO. Barton Collins. He was alive, obviously. But what kind of man would fake his own suicide in front of the man who loved him? What possible motivation could he have for doing such a heinous act? Sherlock was enthralled. It was the best mystery! He set his thoughts for England present day and honed in on an image of Collins that John had kept in a frame by the bed. The man wasn't the most handsome but there was a quality about him that seemed to draw people to him. Sherlock wasn't affected however. Even with James he had not been affected, even though Mycroft again thought he had been. How wrong Mycroft always was! Sherlock could never love anyone like Mycroft loved that imbecilic stumbling bumbling Graham or whatever the detective's name was. How vulnerable it made you. Look at John Watson and how the poor thing grieved over Barton Collins. No, love was not worth the time it took to spell the letters in the word. Sherlock was sure he would never be that fragile and human.

And now he wasn't even. Human. Oh he supposed he was in some ways. He was hungry sometimes and that made whatever John had in the fridge fair game. The Oreos on the counter had been yummy. Sherlock had eaten a whole row of those before he had discovered that perhaps that much sugar in his state of flux wasn't a good idea. He had suffered with a miserable stomach ache for an hour or so that culminated laying on John's bed and curling up in a ball. John hadn't even known he was there except for when he had come in to go to bed and found the covers and duvet all bunched up in the middle of the bed. There had been some customary fuming but nothing that bad that Sherlock hadn't lain beside John to go to sleep that night. in truth, John was a bit fascinating to Sherlock, and maybe that was why Sherlock had made finding Collins his mission.

He blinked at finding himself in a rather ornate living room, complete with gold gilded walls and red embossed furniture. Décor wise the place looked like a brothel and Sherlock frowned as he stared around the room. There had to be an interior decorator on acid somewhere!

"Look, if he puts the album out, as we know he will, then it will be an instant charter when he offs himself! Think how much his catalogue will be worth! He's had a number of hits in the past and every fan loves a good suicide. Look at Nirvana and Cobain."

Sherlock frowned. The voice was cold and calculating and he crept forward to peek through the partially opened French doors that led into the dining room. On one of the big wooden dining room chairs sat Barton Collins, looking quite alive and pleased with himself as he tucked in to a large piece of roast on the plate in front of him.

"Oh yes and I understand from Danny that poor Johnny walks around town like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I already know he took his gun with him to America. How he got it through customs is beyond me, but maybe one of the TSA screeners took pity on the poor old grieving musician." Collins took a bite and Sherlock balled his hands into fists. How dare he treat John's distress like some kind of joke! Sherlock was not the most caring person in the world but he had felt the waves of sadness and sorrow roll off John each and every waking moment, except when John was writing and creating music. He wished at those times that he could do something to help John feel happy again.

The man he was talking to, also eating from a plate at the table, looked up and grinned. "Poor Johnny Watson, shooting himself in a wave of despondency. Oh Bart, you are a cruel boy."

"You know it, Will. I think it's called survival."  Collins took another bite and waved his knife in the air as he spoke. "I figure his back catalog will be worth at least several million and if he gets off his grief stricken ass and records this album that he has been working on, it will nail at least another few mill. People will buy it out of pity, curiosity and the fact that he will obviously dedicate it to me."

"Have you thought about exactly HOW you are going to get to that money though. Does he have a will?"

"Oh yes, and cleverly all the money will go to the Musicians Against Drugs that he and I founded. Without his knowledge, I had my lawyer add my alias to the co founding chair people. That means Samuel Penski is the man who will inherit the money, and I, my dear Will, AM Samuel Penski right down to the driving license card in my wallet and the passport in my trunk. I plan on living in Brazil or Argentina, somewhere I can buy a nice estate and have a few luscious South American beauties in my stable."

Both men were silent as they ate and Sherlock had to quell the anger rising in him. Each bitter word and convoluted thought that Collins had revealed had made him angrier and angrier. How dare this....scheming idiot get away with this plan!

Collins abruptly finished his meal and looked over at the man across the table, the man he had addressed as Will. "So now here's the thing. Are you in or out? Will you help me with this...or do I have to kill you too?"

Will stopped mid chew and stared in disbelief. "Of course, Bart. I've always had your back, you know that." Sweat broke out on the man's brow.

"Good. From now on, my name's Sam." Collins started to laugh and waved his knife around. "I always liked you, Will. I was hoping you'd see it my way."

Insane. The man was clearly insane. No, not insane. Calculating and shrewd. Money was definitely the motivator and Sherlock wondered if there were some huge debts in the man's background. His eyes took in the hands, the way he was sitting, his clothes and it took only a few seconds to realize that he was indeed in debt to several bookies because of some bad bets on the horses. Tsk such a cliché too. Sherlock wondered why a man such as John Watson would ever look at someone like Barton Collins. He must have been extremely clever to have fooled John.

In a way, both Collins and Moriarty were similar. Both were psychopaths, probably tying for the correct number of responses on the Hare Checklist! Both were glib, charming, had grandiose self perceptions, were habitual liars, manipulated other people such as John Watson in this case, had no guilt for what they did or said, demonstrated shallow reactions to death or grief, and the list went on. In Collins, Sherlock saw Moriarty. How was it that both he and John Watson, different as could be, were involved with this type of person? Well, snorted Sherlock, I say involved....

Sherlock sat down on one of the brocaded chairs and began to think. How was he to expose Collins to John? This would take some analyzing and he could not do it here in this house with these 2 men. He needed to get back to the cottage and be immersed in John's scent and the essence that was John. Only then could he figure out a way to fight back and save John Watson.

 

 

Once again, John felt himself slipping into a comfortable doze, and once again, he caught himself just as his elbow was going to slide off the table. He was sitting by Greg, who was keeping busy, or trying to, with one of the books John had taken from the library. Mycroft was engrossed with his phone. Beside him, on the table, was a black doctor's bag with embossed initials that were not Mycroft's or Greg's. John squinted at the letters trying to see them, trying to have something to do to keep his tired mind occupied at 2 am. The initials were printed in gold leaf design and stood out against the black buttery leather of the case. 'WSSH'.

"Whose bag is that?" John said, his voice suddenly breaking the silence of the last hour or so. Mycroft looked up nonplussed but Greg had jumped when John had first spoken.

"An acquaintance," Mycroft answered absently, turning back to his phone.

"Is the antidote inside of there? Inside that bag?" John yawned and stood up, stretching his muscles.

"Yes." Short answer but the tone told John not to pursue it any more.

"Anyone want tea?" John shuffled off to the kitchen and began to go through the comforting and familiar rituals.

"Oh yeah, that would be great!" came Greg's answer. "And My will have one too." John smiled at the warmth in Greg's voice when he spoke of the fussy man. Didn't he always try to speak of Barton in glowing terms, he wondered. And didn't Barton always tell him he was being silly? John frowned, thinking not to think about that, not to even consider that, since Barton had died, there had been some chinks in the armour of his knowing so much about the man he meant to marry.

Suddenly. John felt something. Not something but SOMEONE....."Sherlock?" he whispered, careful not to draw attention from the others who were in the dining area. "Are you there?" John waited and then felt a tug on the sleeve of his striped thermal jumper. "Blimey, you are in some trouble! Your BROTHER is here." John waited and then continued. "He wants to give you a shot of something to make you stop being...dead...or whatever you are..."

Sherlock stopped tugging and froze at the words that John had just said. Mycroft? HERE? Oh yes, there he was, pretending to be engrossed in his mobile and there was Graham across from him. They both looked totally out of their element, sitting there in their now rumpled suits, obviously waiting for him to come back to the cottage. On the table beside his brother was the doctor's bag, or more precisely HIS doctor's bag, the one he had been given as a present by Mummy when Sherlock was taking pre med classes. Did Mycroft think he could track him down and give him the cure for what he was doing? When he was enjoying himself so much! Mycroft knew nothing about time travel and slipping around watching. observing others, and learning so much about past history! Now he was going to take this away from him?

Sherlock concentrated, hard. He felt himself wavering from the effects and only hoped it was working. He heard a gasp from John and then looked up, only to see that his own body was now semi solid, and he was projecting an image that John could see.

"Tell my brother I cannot at this time take his cure. I have my work to do, work that will save the life of someone. Tell him, John. I can't hold this much longer."

John was agape, looking at Sherlock like he was seeing a ghost, and perhaps he was, Sherlock thought. There was a noise behind both of them and then Mycroft was there, and in his hand was the syringe and he was grabbing Sherlock and pulling him, pulling him towards the needle and it was in his arm and suddenly Sherlock felt dizzy and his hold on his physical projection was slipping and he was sliding down down down and nothing was happening and he was gone.

Gone.

John finally broke out of his reverie and slammed his fist on the counter.

"You gave him the antidote and it didn't work. It didn't work!" Was he shouting? He was shouting.

Mycroft gave him a withering look. "We don't know that. He disappeared before we could figure it out." He slid the syringe back into the bag and John noticed that it was empty and the stopper was up to the hilt.

"You don't even know if the medicine went into him! If it did, don't you think it would have an immediate effect?"

"John, quit shouting at me." Mycroft sighed and nodded to Greg. "And now we wait." As if he was the resident of the house, Mycroft took an imperious turn and sat on the couch, his hands steepled under his chin in a thoughtful process. "Now. We wait."

"It's not going to work," John murmured, not bothering to look at Mycroft. "If it was going to work, we'd know by now. Where did you get the remedy? Maybe there isn't a remedy. maybe your brother is going to remain like he is forever." John balled up his fists by his legs. He was angry and he knew it showed on his face, yet he continued. "Sherlock was showing himself to ME. To. Me. Not to you. Not to have you inject him with something. But to show ME. And you ruined it. Ruined it." John huffed.

"And what did you think when you saw him for the first time?" Mycroft said, looking at his mobile again, seemingly not alarmed by John's anger. "Did you fall instantly in love with him? He has that effect, Sherlock does. He is beautiful but so cold, John. You need to remember that he cares nothing about the people he meets."

"But you thought he and that Moriarty guy were together. Didn't Sherlock care about him?" John asked.

"I don't imagine Sherlock has that capacity, John. Now do sit down. We have a few hours ahead of us. If it works, I should be able to take my brother home to England."

"And if it doesn't? What if it doesn't? What if you don't get your brother back and he keeps being whatever he is in my house?" John said, his chin jutting out. His anger had dissipated somewhat but he was still not happy with Mycroft.

"That thought hadn't really crossed my mind, John."

 

Sherlock was shaking. He was cold, then hot, then cold again. He lay on John's bed, wishing to have the strength to pull up the covers and get warm but he could not manage to reach, to lift, to move. Was he dying this time for real? What had Mycroft given him and who had invented it? Surely not the man who had given Sherlock the injection to make him..timeless...had he developed a cure? Sherlock thought back to their conversation right before he had taken the experimental time travel drug. There was no antidote, no remedy, the man had said.  That meant that Mycroft would have had one of his top scientist cronies make something. Sherlock didn't think it would restore him and right now, the pain and stiffness that he felt in every ounce of his body and being bore witness to that.

All he could do is think of something kind and beautiful, for he appreciated the beautiful without embracing it, despite what Mycroft always said. He thought of dark blue eyes, wide, under long sandy coloured lashes, staring at him with feckless abandon and not an ounce of humility or pride to turn around and pretend not to be. Sherlock had just caught a glimpse of John's appreciation for what he looked like and it was going to have to be enough to give him something to hang on to as he lay there without dying, without living, without being real but in place, in time, in whatever he was. Sherlock had something he needed to do, and this was just getting in the way. He wished John was there so he could press up against his warm athletic sturdy body and breathe in the scent of John and revel in the being of John. Damn Mycroft and his notion of moral virtue!!! Damn him to hell and back!

 

"I told you it wouldn't work. I guess I will be seeing you gentlemen out then." John opened the door and winced as the bright sunlight filled his face. It was ten in the morning, and both men were leaving.

"Yes, John, you did say that didn't you?" Mycroft ruefully smiled and held out his hand to John. They shook hands and then Mycroft and Greg walked down to their rental car, not saying a word between them, only their gait belying their sadness. John shut the door and leaned against it, replaying Sherlock's image like a repeating movie image in his mind.

 


End file.
